


Good-byes

by QuidProCrow



Series: Trio of Dances [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Airports, Developing Relationship, Good-byes, M/M, Violins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-24
Updated: 2011-06-24
Packaged: 2017-10-20 16:34:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/214778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuidProCrow/pseuds/QuidProCrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saying good-bye in an airport is difficult. Especially with this- 'whatever they have' of a relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good-byes

Francis never did well with good-byes. They were always too emotional, the ones he’d experienced- and he’d said good-bye in a myriad of ways, in a myriad of places (in hallways, in notes, in text messages, in quick glances and short kisses, in funeral parlors and in cemeteries), but the one that always hurt and was just too terribly awkward was the good-bye in airports. There was too much noise, too much bustle, just a real hodgepodge of everyone and their feelings laid bare for everyone else to bear witness to.

He’d told Arthur he didn’t have to come- but Arthur had insisted, in phrases like _I’m driving you anyway_ and _I want to make sure you don’t forget anything._ But he left out certain phrases, phrases like _I’d rather not be driving you_ and _I’d rather you not leave and forget me,_ phrases Francis hoped he wasn’t just imagining were lingering in the air. 

They stood, side-by-side in the airport, with nervous glances at everywhere else in the room but each other as their shoulders and elbows brushed. And they waited, because Arthur had insisted on getting there early, but early in Arthur’s terms meant forty-five minutes early, and in Francis’ terms that meant one of those terribly long, emotional good-byes that he would catalog in with all his other ones (the ones in hallways, in notes, in text messages, in quick glances and short kisses, in funeral parlors and in cemeteries) when he was on the plane back to France.

More so, Francis wasn’t entirely sure where their relationship was, anyway- they didn’t call it a _relationship,_ they called it more of an acquaintanceship, because they didn’t want to say friendship and ruin whatever the hell they had. Francis would come to England once a month, and he’d spend time with Arthur, walking the streets and visiting cafes and attending more of Elizabeta’s dangerous parties. Arthur would, in turn, come to France every other month, and he’d spend time with Francis, window shopping and going out to dinner and curling up together at night.

But that was _it-_ and though everything made _sense_ to Francis, everything fit _together,_ everything looked _wonderful-_ nothing ever _happened_ , and that was what made this difficult, what made everything difficult. What made standing there, in the airport, with thirty minutes until Francis’ flight was scheduled to come in, not knowing where exactly they stood in their- whatever it was- so terribly _awkward_.

So Francis pulled a cigarette from his pocket, placing it between his lips and fumbling with his lighter, trying to do something, _anything,_ to make something _happen,_ to make it less _awkward_.

“Here,” Arthur muttered, and he tugged the lighter from Francis’ fingertips (they were trembling, he realized, he hadn’t known that until _just that moment)_ , and with a flick of Arthur’s fingers it was working, and he was lighting Francis’ cigarette, and Francis was staring at him, wide cerulean eyes meeting wide jade ones.

 _Oh,_ Francis thought, _oh. How perfect. How-_

And Arthur pulled away, flipping the lighter shut, averting Francis’ eyes. He pushed the lighter against Francis’ free hand, and their fingertips brushed for a second, just a _split second_ as Francis tucked it back into his pocket.

Francis knew the exact moment when it began, when it started, when everything fell into place- that day (or that night, or that morning, or whatever three in the morning was called) in the diner, where Arthur had been drinking tea and Francis had been taking in _everything,_ trying to figure it all out at once.

But he hadn’t _said_ anything- and maybe that was the issue, maybe that was it, maybe that was why they were like this, in this situation, standing like strangers.

He couldn’t _bring_ himself to say anything- and that was the other issue, it was, there wasn’t any doubt about that one, that Francis just couldn’t bring himself to say anything, and he was _terrified_ that they’d forget each other eventually, that they wouldn’t have whatever they had now, that they’d go back to _friends_ and then _acquaintances_ and then they wouldn’t even have _airports_ anymore, and Arthur would be saying good-bye, the kind of good-bye that Francis had been through before, the kind in hallways, in text messages, in notes, in quick glances and short kisses, in funeral parlors and in cemeteries, and the pieces would crumble and Francis, at least, wouldn’t know what to do.

And his plane was coming in twenty minutes now, and soon his cigarette would be simply ashes, and soon Arthur wouldn’t be there, and Francis would be on his plane, and they’d be apart again.

Francis could feel the words, clawing at his throat, the things he wanted to say, the things he _couldn’t_ say, the things-

“Francis?”

He jumped, eyes wide, cigarette almost falling from his mouth as he looked at Arthur. “Mm?”

“….you- we- that is-“

Arthur was tripping over his words, fingertips curling around the violin case he’d brought with him, because he was going someplace afterward (someplace he’d probably told Francis, but Francis had been too wrapped up in watching him to really process what he’d been saying before in the car) where he needed it and didn’t dare leave it in the car, his eyes refusing to look up from his intense study of the smooth floor of the airport.

“I- Francis, I- I’d rather this- this- _whatever it is we have-_ sort of- that is- er- continue, I suppose.”

“…..Arthur, when you do not complete your sentences like that, I have really no idea what you are trying to tell me.”

And Arthur was glaring at him, all sharp-eyed and narrowed glance, and Francis was smiling, because he _knew_ that look (and he knew everything, actually, everything), and he _knew_ that Arthur wasn’t mad, just- just being simply _him._

“Francis, I think you’re really ruining the moment.”

“I am not even sure what moment you are trying to create, really,” Francis replied, even though he knew the moment he _wanted_ Arthur to be creating, he knew the things he _wanted_ Arthur to be saying, but he was doubting, really doubting, that the conversation would go that way, and he was trying to keep the smile on his face while he tried not to think of the good-bye.

“Oh, alright, just- just forget it, alright? I just- you know- I’d- like it if we continued doing this. You know. Airports. Visiting. You know.”

And that was the thing, Francis _did_ know, and he supposed that was the best he could get from Arthur, monosyllabic, straight-laced Arthur, and he was _fine_ with that.

Francis smiled again. “I would like that as well.”

“So, then- next month?”

“Same airport?”

“This _is_ the only airport in the vicinity of my apartment, Francis, don’t try and make this situation terribly complicated- and how many times do I have to tell you to _stop smiling like that_?”

But that was the other thing, _he couldn’t help it._

And the next few minutes seemed to pass too quickly, and Francis’ flight number was announced over the intercom, and he was picking up his suitcases and turning to face Arthur with that smile still on his face.

“Bye, Francis,” Arthur was saying, and Francis nodded.

“Good-bye, Arthur.”

But it was a _different_ good-bye, not the kind in hallways and in text messages and in notes and in quick glance and short kisses and in funeral parlors and in cemeteries, and Francis left, still-smiling, perfectly content with _everything._

**Author's Note:**

> I'm iffy about good-byes. Recently, I decided that good-byes only really truly exist in airports, when people move, and at funerals.  
> ....we can pretend that the first part of that does not apply here if we have to!
> 
> This was also written for a very lovely friend of mine on tumblr who is absolutely amazing. It's also technically part of a three-part thing that was never continued....and may never be...but I do still particularly like this one.


End file.
